Rain at four am

This poem originally appeared in Circle Magazine, August 2000.

The rain wakes me. Begun in
tinney patterings, like cat feet on the stair.
Then heavier, a fat rain,
puffing, pouring in a silver sheet
off the back roof.
Windows, wide open, welcome in the mist.

I wrestle with the quilt, hot and heavy with
night sweat. Entangling folds of linens
reach to trip me.
Come back, they whisper, to the dark safety
of the dreaming. Don't leave us for the
dangerous morning.
But I am already gone--
facing the storm.

A wet wind slaps my skin. I drink deep of
moist air, while the million fingers of rain
tickle my face and run knowing hands
wetly down my body.
I am dancing in the downpour,
sticking out my tongue to catch drops
that always escape--
to soak the nightshirt clinging
with abandon
to my breasts and belly.